


The Waiting Game

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to tell when you're not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Game

**Author's Note:**

> [screams and pours all of my feelings into an extremely short and entirely too-subtle fic] ENJOY

“You don’t have to hide there, you know.”

Minako calls at him from the doorframe, shoes in one hand, bag still over her shoulder. It’s late now, past the dark hour, not yet 1:00. It’s a pitch-black night, inside and out, but the darkness of the dormitory does little to mask the presence of a person still lingering there. Still, her attempt to speak is met with silence from the lump of blankets on the far side of the room.

This neither surprises, nor deters her.

“C’mon,” She tries again, letting her voice catch a more playful edge this time. “I know you’re there.”

The blankets twitch—then, a white shape shakes itself free from the corner of the pile, hopping from the couch, trotting to her feet. She leans down to stroke Koromaru’s fur, scratching under his collar as she sets her shoes down off to the side. She mumbles some sweet-silliness into his ears, only half of it remotely on-topic. _“Good boy,”_ and _“That asshole over there,”_ hopefully sound similar enough to dog ears, no matter how intelligent the breed.

It takes a few minutes, but a snort finally sounds not from Koromaru, but from the other side of the couch. It’s rough and obviously practiced—but just as obviously meant to conceal the soft, humored innards.

“Gotcha--!” Minako shouts, hopping from the floor. Koromaru does not scurry away—but he certainly jumps back an inch.

Shinjiro, however, grants her little more than a grumble. A blanket goes flying from the couch to the floor—presumably the one that he was burying his head in.

They stare at each other across the room, heavy with the awkwardness—the simple surreal nature—of this scene they’ve stumbled into. It seems meaningful, even though Minako’s eyes have yet to adjust enough to the darkness to clearly make out Shinjiro’s grouchy face.

She wants to though. So she adjusts the bag on her shoulder, and marches the edge of the couch, leaning her body over the edge.

“Why’re you hiding?” She asks, grin wry. “I’m not a murderer.”

“I never said you were.” Shinjiro sighs, like something heavy is resting on his lungs. “I just dozed off…here.”

“Here?” Minako echoes.

“Here.”

Minako narrows her eyes. Shinjiro returns the gesture. He’s lying—she can tell that much, by the way he shifts and hunches, like he does when he feigns harshness, indifference. It’s a smaller lie though—similar to that guise, but more focused and specific. She’s certain of it.

“Kids like you shouldn’t be out so late,” Shinjiro interrupts her thoughts with terseness, his gaze shifting away. “You’re just gonna get yourself in trouble like that.”

“….Well.” Minako wrinkles her nose. She can’t deny the truth of it, nor the goodwill. But it irritates her. She made the choice herself, after all. “I was just at the mall. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. Or dangerous.”

Shinjiro huffs. He twists a little on the couch, scratches his neck, looks at the ceiling—but does not reply.

“What?” Minako prods.

“…Nothing. It’s nothing.” He’s shoving the blankets away now, pooling them up at the end of the couch. Something catches in Minako’s throat as he does this—but she can’t say what. Perhaps it’s the number of blankets, or the pea coat and beanie still on his body, even in the warmth of their home—but it just looks wrong. It makes her shiver.

But Shinjiro must have caught her stare, because he turns briskly to look up at her, eyes burning, even in the night. “Just…go to bed.”

The words escape her grasp. She was planning on it—but hearing it is—

“...At least try.” He’s standing now, head tilted away, hands adjusting the lapels, all askew from where he’d be lying down. Koromaru sits across the room, eyes fixed in their direction, as if he understands—or perhaps knows something that she does not.

“…Fine. Yeah…” Minako turns back, finding her hand at her neck. She rubs at it persistently, until the burn of Shinjiro’s gaze lessens, and altogether stops. “I was planning on it.”

Shinjiro’s gaze softens at the sound of her compliance—it pricks her heart, snapping the irritation that may have been there. In that moment, she gets it—why he’s here, why he’s waiting. There’s a responsibility he’s taken upon himself—perhaps blindly, perhaps stupidly—but it’s noble, and somehow wistful in a way she can’t quite grasp.

She starts to walk away, quietly, head held high—but she stops. And she turns:

“…You weren’t asleep.” She says, making him look her in the eyes.

“…” Shinjiro stands above the couch, neatly folding the blankets. She counts them, one, two, three—

“…I’m sorry.” Minako says. She isn’t sure if she means it—but at least some part of her stomach does.

“No. Don’t be.” He shakes his head, almost as if he’s about to laugh. “Not yet, at least.”

Minako pauses, then asks: “What do you mean?”

“I’m only gonna be pissed,” Shinjiro says, not looking up from the rhythmic folding, the quick movements of his hands. “--If you don’t go sleep.”

So Minako turns on her heel, and runs up the stairs.


End file.
